


i’ll take those sweet lips and i’ll deliver

by blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future AU, Wildly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfyre/pseuds/blackfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa grows into a lady at Winterfell. Theon grows into a more sullen ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i’ll take those sweet lips and i’ll deliver

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an asoiaf kink meme over a year ago, originally posted to my [tumblr](http://eliamartell.tumblr.com/post/19824300611/ill-take-those-sweet-lips-and-ill-deliver). Ages are not mentioned for Sansa or Theon so I marked it underage to be safe, can be read as adult.

Sansa grows into a lady in Winterfell, her childhood and dreams never spoiled by the cruelty of a monstrous boy king. She only awakens to the real world slowly, as if coming out of a deep, wonderful dream as sunlight edges into the room. The dreams still curl around her, the fading warmth of a bed and furs, shifting and reforming into the dresses and furs she drapes around her shoulders.

Theon grows into a more sullen ward. Hostage, more in truth. He is bitter and sulky but he keeps up his smiles. The years of living away from Pyke fades his memory of the Ironborn, washing them away like the waves crashing and ripping down the rocks and stones of Pyke. The whole of Westeros laughs at him and Theon laughs back at it, or else he’ll go mad.

* * *

 

Robb becomes more irritated with Theon, wondering how he can laugh, how he can smile when wildings are sneaking over the Wall more and more, as Robb has to bear more responsibility as heir. Robb is heir to all the North, Theon will inherit his father’s bitterness but none of his power or respect.

Robb is short with him one day, anger snapping its jaws, “Why don’t you go to the brothel to fuck some whores? They’ll all you’ll ever have. You’ll never have a true lady.”

Theon glowers for a moment before throwing the cup he’d been drinking from across the table. Theon stalks to the yard, wanting to flush his anger with swords and shooting. He furrows his brow and shoots arrows, anger directing them with furious accuracy.

He glances up after shooting off a quiver, sees Sansa and Jeyne Poole looking onto the practice yard. Jeyne blushes red and hides her face in Sansa’s shoulder. He smirks up at them, the pair of giggling, twittering girls and Sansa’s face turns a light shade of pink, but she holds his gaze and a soft, demure smile grows. He is the one to break it off and when he looks up, Sansa and Jeyne’s hands are intertwined as they hurry away.

Theon later finds Sansa in the godswood, dipping her feet in the pool with needlework in her lap. Winter and spring are intermingling – one month is all snow and ice and cold and another is the melt and mud and sun. They’re on the cusp of spring – or perhaps a false spring – but the air is warm and stifling. Theon sits down beside her and she doesn’t look up, focused only on her needle and thread.

“Lovely day,” he tugs one boot off, then the other, “Fancy a swim?”

Sansa’s mouth purses, “No thank you, my lord.”

Theon smirks, “Your loss on such a hot day,” and he pulls his tunic over his head. “You’re grown up into a pretty lady, you know.”

“My lord is too kind,” her voice is light and airy and Theon smiles at that, at the courtesy embedded in her. Sansa continues to ignore him, threading a pattern of grey thread through the fabric.

He shucks off his breeches, pulling his smallclothes down with it, and Sansa glances up at him, blue eyes going wide. Her mouth drops open, her tongue a sliver of glistening wetness between two pink lips. “ _Theon_!” she shrieks, pulling her feet out of the water, turning away and dashing out of sight. The needlework flies into the dirt and he chuckles before diving in.

Later that night, Theon knocks on Sansa’s door, her slightly-dirtied needlework in hand. She opens it, a dressing robe thrown hastily over her nightshift, one edge slipping off her shoulder. Her hair is unbraided and let down, the red curls shining bright in the firelight. Her hair is a shade brighter than Robb’s, than Lady Stark’s, and Theon is struck by how much she’s grown from the silly girl who only chatted about songs and stories.

“Here,” he holds out the framed needlework. She had been stitching a grey wolf hunting in some woods – he’d never chanced a look at her stitching before, never had a thought for girly arts – and now dirt was smudged on the white thread and fabric.

Sansa reaches forward, her hand grasping the frame. Theon holds onto it for a moment longer, letting his forefinger stroke the back of her hand. Her skin is warm and soft, hands unworked and soaked in milk baths. She looks up at him, face turning that soft pink blush again, and whispers “What are you doing?”

Theon drops his hand, “Good night, my lady,” and walks back to his chamber.

* * *

She looks at him differently now – a slight blush on her cheeks, constantly staring and looking away quickly, licking her lips and rubbing them together. The next few weeks are spent in an odd dance between them – a silent one between them surrounded by her family, because they’ve both shied from private conversations.

One blustery day, Robb suggests a hunt in the wolfswood, and Theon, bored of keeping in the walls of Winterfell, agrees. He is surprised when Sansa comes along; she is not the strongest rider and dislikes the sight of the kill, the splattered blood, and Theon is amused by her gentle heart. Bran and Arya are a pair; after Snow’s departure for the Wall, they had been nigh inseparable. They holler and scream, racing their horses ahead in the woods and Robb curses, setting off after them.

Theon sets an easy pace for Sansa’s sake and they ride in silence, watchful for anything worth hunting. He spies a group of wild turkeys and manages to kill one, sliding off his horse to gather it up. Sansa begins to dismount, her skirts catching on the saddle, and Theon moves over to help her. He takes her by the waist and lifts her off. Despite her height, she still has the slenderness of youth, and she is feather-light in his arms. When her feet touch the ground, he doesn’t let go of her.

Sansa looks up at him, blue eyes widening, as her hand reaches up and rests on his chest. Her lips part, as if to say something, as if to say his name, but Theon doesn’t let her. He leans forward and kisses her.

Her lips are slightly chapped and open with a nudge of his tongue. Sansa is hesitant, but she doesn’t twist away, her hand gripping his tunic a little tighter. He runs his tongue across her teeth, pushing forward and strokes her tongue. At that, Sansa makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. Theon pulls her closer, one arm around her waist, the hand at the small of her back, the other brushing at her hair. Abruptly, Sansa breaks the kiss, turning her head to the side. Her breaths come out rushed, her eyes closed.

She says softly, “We could be seen.”

Theon reaches with his thumb and lifts her chin, meeting her eyes. “Then we should meet where they can’t.”

Sansa’s breath halts before she speaks, “My bedchamber.”

He collects the turkey, tying it to his horse, and helps Sansa mount. They wind their way out of the trees, scrambling back to the edge of the woods. They wait for the others and the two younger Starks burst through the trees, galloping their way back to Winterfell. Robb halts, grinning at Theon and Sansa, a pair of turkeys slung over his horse. Sansa turns away, unable to meet Robb’s eyes.

He laughs at that, “What’s the matter, sister?”

Sansa keeps her head facing Winterfell but her eyes flicker over to Theon, “You know I don’t like the sight of blood.”

* * *

He goes to her bedchamber a fortnight later, having decided it would be best for wait. Sansa opens the door on his first knock, hair brushed over one shoulder, and she ushers him in. Theon can feel the nervousness radiating off her skin as she stands a few feet in front of him. Her hands are clasped in front of her and he looks at her.

She is a true lady, no doubt. It stings, that realization, but it urges his feet, crossing the distance between them. With a tilt of his hand, he lifts her face up. The firelight casts shadows across her face, the auburn hair glowing. “You want this?” he whispers as he kisses her jawline.

Sansa trembles slightly under his touch, one hand resting on his side and the other at his neck. “I do,” she says to Theon’s ears as he trails the kisses down her throat, pushing her nightgown off one shoulder.

Her hands come up to Theon’s chest and pushes him away, gently ( _gentle_  is the word Theon would always use to describe Sansa; even her rebukes and insults are gentle. She is a Stark, a wolf, but a gentle wolf at that). “But Theon,” and her voice is full of hesitance and a hint of fear, “I am a maid.”

Theon smiles, “Your maidenhead has nothing to fear from me, my lady.” Although he wants it, wishes for it, he won’t bed her. The possibility of getting her with child, the wraths of Lord Stark and Robb, how this game won’t be one once he takes it, it weighs heavily on him and Theon may treat everything as a jape but he isn’t stupid.

He continues his kisses, cupping a breast and stroking the nipple through the fabric. Her reactions are more than enough for him; he suspects she hasn’t kissed anyone else besides kissing games in her youth. She clings to him tighter, her kisses more forceful, with teeth ( _wolfish_ ), and he can also taste the smile on her lips.

Theon moves them, slowly, step by step to the bed. The back of Sansa’s knees hit it and she breaks the kiss, wild surprise in her eyes. “Theon, I can’t – “

“Shh.” He places a finger over her lips. “I promised I wouldn’t. But I have something to show you.”

Sansa sits on the bed and Theon kneels between her legs. He brings Sansa to the edge, pushing her nightgown up past her knees, up to her waist. She shivers as a hand caresses her inner thigh and tenses when it reaches her slit. She’s wet already, and his finger runs across her folds, passing over the nub at the top. Sansa cries out, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

Theon smiles and continues stroking her, before kneeling before her cunt and tasting it.

Sansa bucks against him, fingers scratching at his scalp. He reaches up to steady her hips, tongue lapping at her. He finds pleasure in the thought that this is the first tongue to touch her cunt, as she squirms and moans beneath it. Theon moves away from her cunt, to her clit, and he drives circles around it, and Sansa’s breath hitches as she pushes at his head.

He doesn’t stop his pace, a hand dropping to part her folds even more, her breaths coming out as gasps, higher and higher pitched. When she climaxes, it’s with a gasping cry and trembling fingers at his hair, thighs shaking. Theon looks at her, face flushed and eyelids heavy, and smiles. He sits up straighter, bringing her down for a kiss, tasting of her.

Sansa pulls away, hand reaching to touch her lips, brows high and eyes wild at the new flavor. Theon smiles. He’d had a true lady tonight. He would tell Robb, but then Robb would kill him, and where would that leave Sansa? His lips twist into a smirk as he hums the bars of a familar, rowdy song, pleased with himself.  _But what does it matter, for all men must die,_ _and I’ve tasted the Northman’s sister!_


End file.
